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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24542215">Story of Courage</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenbach/pseuds/serenbach'>serenbach</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Lord of the Rings Online</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Fluff</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 11:13:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,237</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24542215</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenbach/pseuds/serenbach</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of ficlets about Palasha Loamsdown, hobbit minstrel, her adventures in the big wide world, and her eventual romance with Lothrandir, Ranger of the North.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>OC/Lothrandir</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bazylia_de_Grean/gifts">Bazylia_de_Grean</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Palasha hesitated as she passed through the village of Crithost on her way back to Minas Tirith as the smell caught her attention.</p><p>Since her adventuring had started, Palasha had got used to having less than the six meals a day that hobbits preferred. Some days she was lucky to have three. Some days even one was a luxury. So when the rich, savoury, toothsome scent of fresh bread hit her nostrils, she found herself following it across the village, her stomach rumbling.    </p><p>It reminded her of warm summer days in the Shire, of picnics and parties, and eating cheese on toast in her warm cosy kitchen, window open to catch the late evening breeze.</p><p>When she finally found the source of the scent, an open window with a tray of bread rolls set out to cool, she called out hopefully, “excuse me?”</p><p>A grandmotherly face peered out of the open window, and gave her the look she was becoming more and more used to seeing the further away from the Shire she travelled, one that meant “who let this child out unaccompanied?” but the woman didn’t comment on her size or apparent age.</p><p>Perhaps she saw the sheen of armour beneath her tunic, the lute on her back, or the elven dagger at her hip. Perhaps she just saw the glimmer of gold coins in her palm (and Palasha could not fault her for that, times were hard, more so when most of the farms around them were burning), and simply said, “can I help you, dear?”</p><p>“Is any of your bread for sale?” Palasha asked, holding out three coins, and the woman’s eyes widened. She held out a roll and Palasha exchanged it eagerly for the money, ripping off a piece and popping into her mouth.</p><p>It smelled as good as it tasted. It was like being back home.</p><p>Palasha smiled at her. “This is just as good as my grandmother’s, and she won champion baker at the Farmer’s Faire for seventeen years in a row!”</p><p>The woman smiled. “Well, thank you, Minstrel.”</p><p>Palasha bid her farewell and headed back to the stables, tucking the bread away into her pack for later. She was due back at the city to give her report to Prince Imrahil, and she knew that the darkness and danger were getting ever closer.</p><p>But at least she had a little taste of home to see her through.      </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. "I'll write a song about this."</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Palasha looked around the Rangers’ campsite in Lebennin, trying to spot Lothrandir. It took a moment; he was not with the other Rangers but sat alone outside the circle of firelight. His mask was off, though his hood was still up, and even with the shadows Palasha could tell that his face was drawn tight with pain.</p>
<p>Palasha wove her way across the camp to join him, putting her pack on the ground and settling her lute in her lap like a puppy as she sat next to him, turning to him with a bright smile, wanting to ease some of the troubles from his face if she could.</p>
<p>“All the ships in Pelargir are safely loaded,” she assured him cheerfully, watching his expression carefully as she did. Lothrandir nodded, relief on his face, but regret as well. </p>
<p>“Asking for help does not come naturally to me, and it shames me that I cannot do my part,” he said quietly. “But I thank you for doing what I could not.”</p>
<p>“There is no shame in asking a friend for help!” Palasha told him. “And you have done your part and more. It takes time to heal, after all.”</p>
<p>“Time we do not have,” Lothrandir pointed out grimly, and then made an attempt to smile. “And I’m afraid that loading crates on to a ship is not a quest worthy of a song for you, my friend.”</p>
<p>“I don’t see why not!” Palasha laughed. “I’ll leave all the grim and epic songs for the big folk to sing. When I write songs about my adventures, I’m not going to sing of war and darkness. I’m going to tell the stories of all the friends I’ve made and the beautiful things I have seen. Just because they are small things doesn’t mean that they are not worth singing about!”</p>
<p>She strummed her lute as she spoke, lost for a moment in the lyrics she was composing in her head before she looked up to see Lothrandir watching her, his expression very warm and, at least for that moment, untroubled.</p>
<p>“If we make it through this war, and when you have written your songs, I hope you come and play them for me in Sûri-kylä,” Lothrandir said quietly, but with some of the weariness lifted from his voice. “I would very much like to hear of all the things you find beautiful.”</p>
<p>Palasha ducked her head a little, glad that they were far enough from the fire that her blush would perhaps not be so noticeable. </p>
<p>“Of <em>course</em> I will,” she promised earnestly, both that they would make it, and that she would sing for him. Lothrandir smiled at her, a true smile that lit up his whole face and Palasha knew that he understood both meanings. </p>
<p>“I look forward to it,” Lothrandir said, that same smile playing on his lips, and Palasha turned back to her lute, her face still warm, and the darkness that surrounded them in that moment felt very far away.     </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. "I believe in you"</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>"I believe in you" prompted by Bazylia_de_Grean</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lothrandir felt the cold stone of his cell under his cheek before he opened his eyes, though he was not sure if had slept or if he had merely lost consciousness for a time.</p>
<p>His body ached from the ungentle treatment of his captors, he was weary in mind from resisting the manipulations of Saruman’s magic, and he was chilled to the bone and numb from the cold of his cell.</p>
<p>He pushed himself upright slowly, trying to ignore the dull gnawing ache of hunger in his stomach and the burn of thirst in his throat as he wrapped his arms around his knees for warmth and tried not to think.</p>
<p>Beyond the physical pain he was in, and as little as he liked to admit it, even to himself, he was <em>afraid.</em></p>
<p>He was afraid for his adopted homeland of Forochel. Though the Lossoth were brave and strong, they had no knowledge of the true depth of darkness that was coming and he had left them to face it alone.</p>
<p>He was afraid for his brethren, his friends and fellow Rangers, and the battles they would face while he was festering uselessly in this cell.</p>
<p>He feared also for Palasha – this was no place for a hobbit, no matter her heart or courage – and he had left her alone and undefended in the midst of an enemy army.</p>
<p>And most of all, he was afraid that whether through torture or magic or just deprivation, that the day would come when he would tell Saruman everything he knew – and worse, everything he <em>suspected</em>, which would bring terrible danger down upon everyone and everything he cared about.</p>
<p>He pressed his head against his knees as his mind drifted, churning his troubled and hopeless thoughts over and over with no relief.</p>
<p>And then he heard the song. Faint, but clear, and so very familiar – a Lossoth hunting song he had heard so many times before, and even sung himself, in happier times.</p>
<p>At first he thought that maybe he had slipped into some sort of waking dream until he realised that a few of the words were slightly mispronounced, the elongated vowel sounds rounded out by someone who had not quite had enough practice saying them out loud, sung in a voice that was just as familiar to him as the song.</p>
<p>
  <em>Palasha.</em>
</p>
<p>He couldn’t tell where she was – the metallic walls of Orthanc carried sound strangely – but she was alive, and well enough to be singing, and the misery that had clouded his thoughts lifted at the sound.</p>
<p>He remembered that night in Sûri-kylä during Palasha’s first visit, where she and the Lossoth minstrels had spent a joyful evening learning each other’s songs, and he smiled at the memory, feeling some of the chill of his surroundings lessen as he listened, the tension easing from his body.</p>
<p>But it was more than the memory that made him smile. He knew that by singing a song that only he knew that she was trying to send a message to him in the only way she could. <em>Stay strong. I believe in you. Don’t give up. </em></p>
<p>He kept listening until the song faded away, though whether Palasha had moved out of his hearing or if she had been forced to stop, he didn’t know. But he believed in her, too. He had faith that she would make it out of this place.</p>
<p>He was still sore, and cold, and thirsty, but the despair had lifted from his mind, and he had hope again. He was Lothrandir of the <em>D</em><em>únedain</em> and he could withstand whatever torments Saruman had in store for him.</p>
<p>One day, he would be free.</p>
<p>One day, he would hear the songs of the Lossoth again.</p>
<p>And perhaps, one day, Palasha would sing them for him.    </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. butterknife</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>"You called this dagger… Butterknife?" she asked, not knowing if she wanted to laugh or cry.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>While a halfling seemed a strange choice for a companion into Mordor, Harthalín trusted Mithrandir's judgement, and so far Palasha had indeed proved to be a merry companion. She was very glad of the company as they travelled through the dark lands that held so many terrible memories for her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Harthalín watched with a small smile as Palasha gestured expansively while she described the route that she had just returned from scouting out, and her gaze just happened to catch on the sheathed dagger at Palasha's side. A strange sharp pain bloomed under Harthalín's ribs as she recognised the blade, a thousand memories pushing to the forefront of her mind all at once.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"May I see your dagger?" she asked abruptly, unintentionally interrupting her companion's story. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Palasha gave her a curious look but drew it obligingly and handed it over.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It fitted perfectly in her hand, the metal bright even in this dark place, and Harthalín let her fingers drift over the maker's mark on the hilt.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She knew that mark from so long ago. This dagger was made by one of her dearest friends, one who had not survived the fall of Gondolin. It was entirely possible that Harthalín had seen this blade before, when it was newly forged.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What do you know of it?" Harthalín asked Palasha. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Well, it's definitely Elven," the minstrel replied. "And very old indeed."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Very old. Forged in the First Age," Harthalín told her quietly. "In Gondolin."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even after all these years, just saying the name of the city hurt.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Palasha's eyes widened. She clearly knew the name, though she of course had no true idea of what had been lost the day the city fell. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Gondolin! To think my little Butterknife was made in that great city!"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Harthalín looked away from the blade and down at Palasha, startled out of her melancholy</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You called this dagger… Butterknife?" she asked, not knowing if she wanted to laugh or cry. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Ah, well," Palasha replied, shifting a bit awkwardly from side to side. "All the blades in the great stories have names, you see, but that all seems a bit </span>
  <em>
    <span>grand </span>
  </em>
  <span>for the likes of me. Besides, one day when there's peace again, I'll go home to the Shire where I'll have no need for a weapon, and plenty of need for a butterknife! It's… something to hope for, at least." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Well, I hope you clean it thoroughly," Harthalín replied, amused in spite of her sadness.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Palasha grinned up at her impishly, but her expression when she tilted her head back to meet Harthalín's eyes was thoughtful, and kind. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Would you like to keep it?" she asked. "I have plenty of other daggers in my backpack. I seem to find them all over the place!" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Harthalín shook her head and handed it back, though not without a pang of loss.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Peace is definitely something to hope for," she said quietly. "And I doubt you would find a finer blade than this." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Besides, as strange as it may seem, Harthalín thought that her friend would approve of the dagger's new owner.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. the heart is hard to translate</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Palasha had been singing since before she could talk, if you believed the stories her parents told, anyway!</p>
<p>And since she had left the Shire, she had learned all sorts of new songs, from all over Middle Earth. She knew Dwarven drinking songs, and sad Elven ballads from long ago. She knew Rhohirric dirges, and Gondorian nursery-rhymes. She knew hunting songs from Forochel and tales from Dunlending history. She even knew the sad songs sang in Mordor by those who longed to be free.</p>
<p>So why did she find it so difficult to put her own feelings into verse? Every time she tried, it all got tangled up inside and came out sounding... silly, or too <em>grand</em> for her hobbit sensibilities.</p>
<p>After spending all night writing and only coming up with; “you make my heart sing like a kettle on a fire" she put her lute aside in despair only to pick it up again moments later.</p>
<p>The words were in there somewhere. She just had to keep trying.</p>
<p>And then she just had to find the courage to sing it.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>For Bazylia_de_Grean. </p><p>Story of Courage is the name of one of the minstrel healing skills in the game.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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